


Swords Against Dreams

by marycrawford



Category: Lankhmar
Genre: Angst, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marycrawford/pseuds/marycrawford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night owls they had been ever since their first career of thief and cutpurse in fabled and unwholesome Lankhmar and night owls they remained, for both now dreaded sleep more than any other danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swords Against Dreams

The great hall rang with the sound of swords, but the  
balconies high above the tiled floor were empty of spectators. It was just past dawn  
and most of Duke Lithquil's court was still abed, including the Duke  
himself; Lithquil's nightly entertainments were often exhausting, both  
for the spectators and the participants. Yet the two men who now  
circled each other, swords leaping as if alive in their hands, seemed  
as intent on killing each other as any pair of gladiators stirred to  
bloodlust by the calls and cheers of a raucous audience.

Snarling, Fafhrd brought down his heavy sword Graywand to  
cleave the Mouser's head in twain. The blow fell with the inevitability  
of a rockfall, and even the Mouser seemed startled when his rapier  
snicked upwards to deflect it in the very last moment, shrieking the  
harsh song of steel against steel. They separated again, panting and  
eyeing each other fiercely.

With a mocking "Ha!" and an intimidating stamp of his foot the  
Mouser leapt forward and sliced his swordtip towards Fafhrd's midriff  
faster than the eye could follow. Graywand came up to meet him, but the  
Mouser beat her point aside and attacked anew, forcing Fafhrd to slip  
his huge body aside this way and that from Scalpel's narrow blade, then  
drove him back and back until his spine met the cushioned wall.

Again their blades met and clashed until Scalpel's edge was  
trapped by Graywand's crossguard. They were pressed close, the Mouser  
trying to regain the upper hand by a cunning writhe and judicious  
application of a raised knee, Fafhrd forcing down the Mouser's sword  
with all the advantages of greater reach and strength.

The Mouser broke left, releasing Fafhrd's sword and rolling  
down and away so fast that Fafhrd lost his balance and took a stumbling  
step forward, away from the wall that protected his back. Immediately  
the Mouser pressed his advantage, feinting left then aiming for  
Fafhrd's hamstrings on the backstroke. Fafhrd jumped over the blow,  
faster and higher than seemed feasible for a man of his size, and swept  
Graywand around whistling. The blow had all his weight behind it, and  
the Mouser could not parry or deflect it in time. Instead he threw  
himself bodily to the side and ended up sprawled like a drunkard on the  
painted tiles. Graywand was at his throat in a heartbeat, the point  
scratching his neck.

There was a pause. The Mouser watched his friend with slitted  
eyes, raising an eyebrow in silent surprise when Fafhrd's look of  
singleminded ferocity faded and he began to laugh until the high  
vaulted roof rang with the sound.

The Mouser got up from his sprawl immediately, adjusting his  
grey silk jerkin in a manner reminiscent of a snowcat washing itself  
after a mistimed jump.

"We need to think of something a little more original for that  
last move," the Mouser said. "We've ruined enough clothes with oxblood  
already, and I think it's time to try something different."

Fafhrd nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could find a way to  
simulate the severing of a limb, or even a head?"

"It's a thought, but Lithquil does see the real thing on a  
daily - nay, nightly - basis," the Mouser answered, tilting his head  
dubiously. Then he grinned. "Of course, the real thing is not nearly as  
artistic as our better efforts."

Fafhrd nodded again, for he knew well that the Mouser's flair  
for drama - not to mention his own attempts at emulating the  
bloodthirsty sagas of his youth - was all that separated them from the  
unlucky braves that spent their lives upon these tiles.

When the Mouser and he had arrived in Ool Hrusp, penniless and  
footsore from their fruitless quest to the Cold Waste, they'd been  
approached immediately by one of Lithquil's courtiers with the message  
that Lithquil wished to hire them to provide entertainment for his  
court. They'd known Lithquil's reputation as the Mad Duke of Ool Hrusp,  
but they had to admit that the reality of Lithquil's court was gorier  
than anything even a fevered imagination could come up with. The  
self-styled Duke was in love with Death as much as he was afraid of it,  
thinking nothing of sending a hundred warriors to their dubious rewards  
between supper courses.

Yet they'd contracted with the Duke quickly enough, the Mouser  
overruling Fafhrd's misgivings, and embarked upon a series of elaborate  
duels and occasional cunning murders that were all the more unusual in  
that the performers were allowed to survive the performance. The Duke  
rewarded them generously, and that he required them to perform every  
night was a whim that suited the twain.

In Lankhmar they had lost their first loves - the Mouser's  
delicate Ivrian and Fafhrd's formidable Vlana - to a grisly and  
sorcerous fate. Although they had wrought quick and thorough redress on  
the murderers, the ghosts of their dear girls were with them still,  
troubling their dreams with silent, plaintive visitations. Only their  
habitual self-restraint, the knowledge that the other suffered  
likewise, and the strenuous regimen of practice by day and performance  
at night kept them from slipping into madness.

Night owls they had been ever since their first career of  
thief and cutpurse in fabled and unwholesome Lankhmar and night owls  
they remained, for both now dreaded sleep more than any other danger.

Together they left the high hall for their own, more  
comfortable quarters. They had taken up residence in a two-storied set  
of rooms in the North Tower, hung with tapestries depicting long-ago  
battles that had been deemed insufficiently grisly for the chambers of  
Lithquil's closer associates. As they neared the curtained entrance,  
still debating ways to surprise the Mad Duke into even greater  
beneficence, the Mouser's tread slowed the merest fraction, while his  
left hand wandered over to tap at Fafhrd's thigh even as he proclaimed,  
"..And of course Glavas Rho taught me much of how a man may die of a  
black whim or a dark glance, his demise sudden and unforeseen except by  
the smiling sorcerer-"

Here Fafhrd drew Graywand from her silk-lined sheath in  
perfect silence. The Mouser nodded and continued his boast as he slowly drew  
back the curtain that kept the draught from their doorway. Inside all  
was quiet, their belongings undisturbed, the tapestries hanging still  
and flat against the stone walls.

The Mouser stepped inside the room as quietly as his namesake,  
casting his gaze swiftly round, then nodded towards the polished wooden  
ladder that led to their bedroom. He went over to the low table near  
the hearth and busied himself with pouring wine, clattering the copper  
goblets together with a great deal of noise. Fafhrd loped silently up  
the stairs, Graywand at the ready.

"Look you what I have caught, Mouser!" The Mouser set down the  
wine jug and turned unhurriedly, wondering at the strained note in  
Fafhrd's voice.

A slim redheaded girl was descending the stairs, clad only in  
the abbreviated linen shift that Lithquil favored for his slaves.  
Looking at her closely, the Mouser saw that her eyelids were raw and  
puffy, and that her shoulders trembled like a reed in the wind.

Behind her, Fafhrd gave another of his great laughs, but this  
one sounded oddly muted. "A pretty thing to find between the sheets!  
What does Lithquil intend with this latest gifting, I wonder?"

The Mouser looked up at him in silence, trying to decipher the  
expression on his face.

"Lithquil did not send me," the girl began as soon as she  
reached the bottom of the stairs, drawing herself up to face the  
Mouser. "I slipped away to speak to you - to beg your aid."

The Mouser sighed and handed her a goblet of wine, then  
motioned her to a carved wooden chair. He was very much aware of  
Fafhrd's gaze upon him, and it was true that under other circumstances  
she might have aroused more than his current mild and near-avuncular  
interest.

"My name is Anfilne," the girl said quaveringly. "I was sold  
to Lithquil by Mingol traders - along with my brother, Fleran." She gulped  
her wine, while the Mouser drummed his fingers upon the armrest of his  
own chair. "They sent him out to fight on the very first night,"  
Anfilne continued, her lower lip quivering. "He was a fisherman - he'd  
never even held a sword before!" Her eyes spilled over and she began to  
sob. Fafhrd looked at the Mouser quizzically. When the Mouser did not  
move, Fafhrd bent closer to the girl and muttered something reassuring.  
Anfilne squared her shoulders and wiped her eyes with the back of her  
hand.

"Another slave ran him through. I was plucking what seemed  
like a thousand geese and wondering what had happened to my brother, when -  
when they carried him past the kitchens, all torn up. They said that  
Lithquil laughed when he died."

"What do you beg of us?" Fafhrd asked. "Escape?" The Mouser  
frowned. He knew that Fafhrd felt a barbarian's disapproval for  
slavery, but to court Lithquil's displeasure for the sake of one  
runaway seemed a little excessive.

Anfilne set down her wine goblet. "No - I care nothing for  
myself. But please-" She stretched out her hands beseechingly to  
Fafhrd, then to the Mouser. "I beg you. Slay Lithquil for me, avenge my  
brother's unjust death. I'll do anything-"

The Mouser and Fafhrd exchanged uneasy looks. "Lithquil has  
devoted his life - aye, and his considerable imagination - to serving  
Death," the Mouser said at last, quite gently. "And Death will come for  
him at his appointed time."

"Besides," Fafhrd added, "he is extremely well guarded."

"Do you mean to say you're afraid?" Anfilne's eyes were  
ice-cold now, tears drying on her cheeks.

The Mouser looked daggers at his comrade, but Fafhrd's  
response was unruffled: "I mean that we are swordsmen, not assassins, the Mouser  
and I. When Lithquil contracted for our services we agreed not to harm  
his person or members of his court for the duration of our stay -  
unless expressly invited to do so, of course."

"You are nothing but swords-for-hire, then. I thought you were  
men of honor, the only two left in this hell-pit."

The Mouser could find nothing to say to this. He mused upon  
redheads, and how even the weepiest of them could not be called  
unspirited, while Fafhrd took it upon himself to defend their  
reputation until Anfilne stormed out of their rooms.

A draught had risen, setting some of the tapestries undulating  
gently against the wall, and the Mouser knelt to build up the fire in  
their hearth. Fafhrd joined him, drawing up two chairs before the fire.

"I grow tired of vengeance," Fafhrd said morosely, staring  
into the sputtering flames. "If the girl desires death, let her court it  
herself by slipping a little dragonbane into Lithquil's soup."

"And end the innocent life of one of Lithquil's food-testers?"  
the Mouser enquired.

Fafhrd snorted, but did not answer. The Mouser decided that  
more wine was needed to restore his friend's mood, or at the very least keep  
him from sinking further. He unstoppered another jug of heavy Ilthmar  
vintage and poured both himself and Fafhrd a generous gobletful,  
raising an eyebrow when Fafhrd emptied his goblet in one long draught  
and held it out again. Since their next stage-duel was still more than  
twelve hours away, the Mouser imitated his comrade and poured again,  
then drew his chair closer to Fafhrd's.

"I wonder if she sees her brother in her dreams," he remarked,  
looking at Fafhrd sideways.

"Her plan would not avail her, if that were so," Fafhrd  
answered, still watching the fire, chin resting on balled-up fist. "We  
slew Hristomilo, aye, and his chattering familiars-"

"Not to mention a number of ill-starred thieves that got in  
our way," the Mouser chimed in.

"-And still Vlana dogs my dream-steps," Fafhrd continued  
without missing a beat. "She gazes at me, chiding me silently, although what  
more we could have done, I do not know."

"Mayhap she desired us to set the entire Thieves' Guild alight  
and put all its denizens to the sword," the Mouser suggested, thinking  
back to Fafhrd's forthright and audacious beloved, who had admittedly  
had a touch of monomania on the subject of the Thieves' Guild. He  
didn't really believe the suggestion, however. Privately he thought  
that Ivrian and Vlana would not leave them in peace because they could  
not, because those who come to a sudden and violent end must needs  
leech warmth and life from the living and thus drive off the endless  
chill of the Shadowland.

"Your Ivrian," Fafhrd said suddenly, turning his gaze from the  
fire to the Mouser. "Does she speak to you?"

It was a question the Mouser would not have brooked from  
anyone but Fafhrd.

"No." He watched the fire spark red glints in Fafhrd's hair,  
avoiding his eyes. "I thought, once, that she seemed ready to say  
something. She moved her lips, took breath - but no. She looks at me  
and sighs."

The Mouser tried not to think of that chilly, plaintive look  
that was so much worse on a dead face. He was ready to admit that he'd  
spoilt his Ivrian more than a little, but she had after all been his  
first real love - and might well be his last, it seemed to him in his  
blacker moments, since the dreams worsened whenever he embarked upon  
even a minor dalliance. No woman with a grain of self-respect would  
tolerate their lover crying out another's name in his sleep night after  
night. The Mouser could hardly fault them for it, although he did rue  
his loss.

"I would have thought the kitchen wench might gain a more  
sympathetic audience from you," Fafhrd remarked, changing the subject  
perhaps a touch too quickly. His mouth tightened. "She's just the  
barely-grown sort of chit you seem to favor."

Stung, the Mouser readied a devastating reply, yet did not  
loose it. He looked at Fafhrd's strained expression, feeling as though  
he were standing guard near the edge of some unguessably deep abyss. As  
though they were both standing there, hungry and heartsore, waiting for  
a relief that did not come.

He poured them both more of the pale, bubbly Ilthmar wine,  
feeling the need of a little artificial courage. It tickled his throat  
as it went down. Finally he looked directly up into Fafhrd's intent  
gaze.

"I wonder," he intoned, letting the syllables roll off his  
tongue like marbles, "if there may not be an alternate solution to our  
common problem." His voice sounded odd to his ears, thickened and  
slurred, and he wondered if he hadn't perhaps drunk more than he had  
intended. Certainly Fafhrd didn't seem to catch his meaning as quickly  
as he usually did; his eyes held questions rather than answers.

For once in his life the Mouser abandoned the idea of using  
clever speeches and rhodomontade to gain his objective. Instead he took  
a breath and launched himself out of his chair and into Fafhrd's. Onto  
Fafhrd's. Onto Fafhrd, in fact.

Fafhrd's breath huffed out of him as their bodies met. His  
eyes widened, and his hands came up to grasp the Mouser's shoulders  
with bruising force. The Mouser found that he could not breathe; he  
felt certain that Fafhrd would next dash him on the floor, might  
perhaps even draw sword on him. Desperate, gambling all, he pressed his  
lips against Fafhrd's.

Fafhrd did not throw him off, nor did he wrest himself away.  
Instead he went entirely still. The Mouser curbed his instinct to step  
back to safety and proffer excuses, spurious explanations, even  
laughter. There could be no retreat, not from this. He closed his eyes  
and tried again, breathing in Fafhrd's winy breath as their mouths met  
anew.

To his stunned disbelief, Fafhrd's mouth opened under his. The  
Mouser's eyes flew open, and for a heartbeat they stared at each other  
in mutual amazement; then Fafhrd's hands released his shoulders to  
slide erratically over his back and down, clearly caressing rather than  
repelling, and he was lost.

The chair creaked as the Mouser clenched his own hands around  
Fafhrd's wide shoulders and pressed himself against his comrade,  
half-standing, half-lying on top of him while their mouths dueled with  
increasing fire. Their breaths came quicker now than during their  
fighting practice earlier, but the feeling was the same - a wave riding  
high, then impossibly higher still - except this time the Mouser did  
not break away but instead pressed even closer, until they were heaving  
and straining against each other.

"Fafhrd-" he breathed, asking for he knew not what  
reassurance.

Fafhrd broke off then, held him still. Fear he would never  
have admitted to clamped the Mouser's throat tightly shut.

"I'm not drunk," Fafhrd said quietly. "Not that drunk," he  
added, almost smiling, and kissed the Mouser's open mouth.

Relief shuddered through the Mouser, and he let himself fall  
against Fafhrd for a moment so that the chair creaked even more,  
threatening to overset them. After that truly knee-weakening kiss the  
Mouser decided it was time to double, nay quadruple the stakes and  
regain something of his lost initiative. He slid out of the chair and  
down to his knees, quick fingers already at work upon the lacing of his  
friend's codpiece before common sense could overtake him.

He looked up at Fafhrd through his lashes as he took him in  
his hands, barely in time to catch the look of naked hunger that flitted  
across his face. That look drew the Mouser on irresistibly, making it  
easy and even natural to take Fafhrd into his mouth.

As he worked his lips and tongue experimentally he felt  
Fafhrd's hands grip his shoulders again, clasping ever tighter. His  
urgency caught the Mouser up until he, too, was straining desperately  
and had to release his death-grip upon Fafhrd's thigh to take himself  
in hand. Fafhrd let go his shoulders then and laced his fingers through  
the Mouser's hair, his breath hitching as the Mouser took him deeper.

When Fafhrd cried his name, hoarse-voiced and urgent, the  
Mouser spent into his own hand. He never paused, eyes locked upon  
Fafhrd's as his comrade's shudders increased, and a few heartbeats  
later Fafhrd spilt salt and bitter into his mouth.

When the Mouser spat into the fireplace, Fafhrd could do  
nothing but lie back in the chair and shudder to a standstill. The  
Mouser turned to lean back on his heels and enjoy the view.

After a little while Fafhrd stood up, taking evident care to  
maintain his balance, and reached out a hand to draw the Mouser up with  
him. They stood together silently for a moment, breathing harshly, then  
Fafhrd turned to ascend the ladder. The Mouser followed him.

The upstairs room was empty of all amenities except their  
bedrolls and packs, a wardrobe and a pile of furs in one corner. Fafhrd  
rejected the furs without a second thought - the Mouser knew they  
reminded him too much of Snow Corner and the chilly embraces of his  
child-bride Mara - and instead knelt to push their bedrolls closer  
together.

They both took off their boots and lay down in their clothes  
as was their wont. The Mouser turned to lie upon his side in his usual  
sleeping position and felt Fafhrd draw closer to him, then silently  
bury his face in his neck. The Mouser was content to lie thus aligned  
until twilight, when they would be called upon to perform their  
mock-duel, but even as he closed his eyes Fafhrd whispered to him:  
"Mouser?"

The Mouser made a sound that was half sigh, half groan.

"Think you perhaps the wench was sent to test our loyalty?"

The Mouser looked around at Fafhrd reprovingly. "You would  
play the informer with Lithquil, the Duke of Paranoia? Our necks would  
assuredly be next on the chopping block."

"And how long do you think we can remain at Lithquil's court  
before we end up there in any case?" Fafhrd demanded. "We risk  
outstaying our welcome, Mouser."

The Mouser turned back, falling silent for so long that Fafhrd  
might even think him asleep. At last he asked wearily, "Where shall we  
go, then?"

"I've never been to Tovilyis," Fafhrd said, stroking the  
Mouser's shoulder with a broad, warm hand.

The Mouser took a breath. "The beggar-city. Nor have I, not  
since I was born."

"Well, since I dragged you along to my own birthplace-" Fafhrd  
began.

"-And may I add that I never want to see that much snow in one  
place again?" the Mouser interrupted him. "Very well. Tovilyis it is."

Fafhrd clasped his shoulder in silent agreement.

In a little while they slept, leaving all thought of  
vengeance, madness and intrigue behind. And if they dreamed it was not of their  
lost loves, since neither cried out a name before the sun sank beneath  
the Outer Sea.

  



End file.
